Triumph of the Darksword Read online

  The Ariel’s body was burned, the feathers of the giant wings singed and blackened. His head slumped, he hung limply in the gentle grasp of his comrades.

  “My lord, we caught him falling from the air,” one of the Ariels reported as they alighted on the ground before their Prince, easing the wounded man down on the grass.

  “Send for the Theldara!” Garald ordered, his heart wrenched with pity for the wounded man and the thought of the courage it had taken to fly in that terrible condition.

  Someone hastened away in search of a healer, but Garald, kneeling by the winged man’s side, saw that it was too late. The man was unconscious, obviously dying. The Prince gritted his teeth. He had to find out what was happening! At a word, he caused water to appear in the palm of his hand. Moistening the Ariel’s burned lips, he sprinkled the cooling substance on the cracked and blackened flesh of the face.

  “Can you hear me, my friend?” Garald asked in a low voice Cardinal Radisovik, kneeling by his side, began to quietly perform the ritual rites granted to the dying.

  “Per istam Sanctam…”

  The Ariel’s eyes fluttered open. He did not seem to know where he was, but gazed around wildly and cried out in terror.

  “You are safe, my friend,” Garald said softly, touching the lips with water. “Tell me, what happened?”

  The Ariel’s eyes focused on the Prince. Reaching out a bloodied hand, the winged man grasped hold of Garald’s arm. “Monstrous creatures … of iron!” The man gasped for breath, clutching Garald tightly, painfully. “Death… crawls…. No escape!” The Ariel’s eyes rolled back in his head, the lips parted in a scream that was never heard, the voice died in the throat with a rattle.

  “…Untíonem indúlgeat tibí Dominus quidquid deliqústi.…”

  The hand on Garald’s sleeve slid from its convulsive grasp. The Prince remained kneeling, staring unseeing at the stains upon his robes, the blood a dark black against the crimson red of the velvet.

  “Creatures of iron?” he repeated.

  “The poor man was delirious, Your Grace,” said Cardinal Radisovik firmly, closing the vacant, staring eyes of the corpse. “I would pay little attention to his ravings.”

  “Those weren’t the ravings of a delirious man,” Garald said thoughtfully, when he felt the Cardinal’s hand close tightly over his arm. Glancing up, he saw Radisovik shake his head ever so slightly, with a warning look in the direction of the commanders, who were watching them intently, faces pale, eyes wide.

  “Perhaps you are right, Holiness,” the Prince amended lamely, licking his dry lips.

  Above them, the bright blue sky was darkening rapidly as storm clouds materialized, surging and boiling like the confused thoughts in Garald’s mind. Though not consciously aware of it, he heard the voices of the spectators—shrill with irritation or deep with anger—demanding to know what was going on. He heard the stern voices of the Ariels in answer, urging the spectators to return to their homes before the full fury of the storm broke.

  The full fury…. Creatures of iron…. Death … crawls. What an odd expression. Death crawls….

  Voices clamored. Everyone was talking at once, demanding his attention.

  “Shut up! Leave me alone! Let me think!” The words swelled in his throat, but—with an effort of will—he swallowed them. They would reveal to everyone that he was losing control of the situation. Losing control? Garald smiled bitterly. He had no control to lose! He had absolutely no idea what was going on. He was still inclined—perhaps wanted desperately—to believe this was some trick of Xavier’s. But another glance at the Gameboard was enough to convince him that this was not so. The forces of Merilon were being routed, destroyed, along with the forces of Sharakan.

  Routed and destroyed by an unseen foe….

  Creatures of iron….

  Death crawls….

  “I’m going out there to see for myself,” Prince Garald said abruptly.

  Clouds darkened the sky, massing thicker and blacker. A sudden gust of wind flattened the tall grass and set the limbs of the trees creaking. Heralded by a forked tongue of lightning and a sharp thunder crack, the storm broke around them. Driving rain soaked clothes through in an instant, hail stung their skin painfully. The release of the storm released the tensions within each man as well. Chaos erupted, as panic swept among the entourage like the wind over the grass.

  Some tried to dissuade their Prince from going, pleading that he return to Sharakan. Others insisted that he go and take them with him. One faction decided it was a clever ploy of Merilon and were arguing that they should hurl everything they had against Xavier’s forces. Several pointed accusing fingers at the blacksmith.

  “Creatures of iron!” cried one. “It’s the accursed work of these Sorcerers!”

  Suddenly all fears had a focus.

  “The Dark Arts?” cried several. “The Sorcerers are taking over the world?”

  “Emperor Xavier said this would happen,” came an angry shout.

  “My lord, I swear!” The agonized voice of the Sorcerer blacksmith boomed over the cracking thunder. “It isn’t us! You know we would never betray you—!”

  Creatures of iron…

  Ignoring the pleas and the arguments and the clutching hands as he ignored the rain in his face and the hail that was pelting him, Garald shoved his commanders aside. Cardinal Radisovik had just drawn his own cloak over the body of the Ariel and was rising to his feet as the Prince approached him.

  “Open a Corridor to me, Radisovik,” Garald demanded, glaring at the catalyst sternly, expecting further opposition.

  To Garald’s surprise, the Cardinal nodded in acquiescence. “I will do so, Your Grace, in a moment.” Laying his hand upon Garald’s arm, Radisovik looked intently at his Prince. “What are your orders in your absence?” the Cardinal reminded him gently.

  Garald’s first impatient impulse was to rebuff the catalyst, to shove him aside as he had the others. But the Cardinal’s touch on his arm was firm and reassuring, his minister’s voice calm and steady. Although there was fear on the face of the older man, it was being held in check by wisdom. Garald saw his own face reflected in Radisovik’s eyes, he saw his own eyes, wild and staring, he saw the beginnings of panic.

  The Prince made himself relax. Rational thought returned.

  “My orders,” he repeated, running his hand through his wet hair, noticing as he did so that though the rain was falling around him, it was no longer falling on him. Someone—he supposed it was a Duuk-tsarith—had cast a magical shield over the group and the Gameboard, protecting them from the elements. Garald cast a shield over his mind in much the same way, creating a tiny calm in the center of the mental turmoil. Slowly, he turned back to the Gameboard.

  “Pull all the warlocks and their catalysts back from areas near that front immediately,” he said, indicating the eastern flanks that were not yet under attack. There were no signs of fighting there yet, no one was fleeing or dying in those sectors. Whatever was happening was spreading westward from the north. “Bring them down south, near where we stand now. Cover their retreat with centaurs, the giants, the dragons.” He indicated other areas on the Board. “These creatures appear to be having some effect in stopping”—he paused—“whatever is out there….”

  “There is also a pocket of strong resistance here, Your Grace,” said one of the commanders, calling everyone’s attention to an area on the far northwestern corner of the Board.

  “Yes,” said Garald, recognizing it as did everyone else there. It was Emperor Xavier’s position around his own Gameboard. Silently, the Prince watched the small group of figures fighting … what? Garald roused himself. “Do nothing further until you hear from me,” he added, turning and walking swiftly from the Board. “Radisovik, open the Corridor. I place you in charge—”

  “I’m going with you, Garald,” interrupted the Cardinal, coming to stand beside his Prince.

  “Thank you, Radisovik,” Garald said in a low undertone, “but I think
it would be better if you stayed here.” He looked about at his commanders, noting their nervous, darting glances at the Board and at each other. “Let me take one of the other catalysts. Your wisdom and cool thinking—”

  “—will be needed by my hot-headed Prince,” finished Radisovik with a slight smile. Leaning near Garald so that the Prince alone could hear, Radisovik added softly, “Remember what we heard about the Borderlands?”

  Puzzled, Prince Garald stared intently at Radisovik, wondering what he meant, silently interrogating the catalyst with his eyes. But the Cardinal—casting a meaningful look around at the others—said no more. Radisovik’s face appeared to age visibly beneath the Prince’s gaze, however, answering Garald more eloquently than words.

  The Prince suddenly understood The Prophecy.

  “Very well, Radisovik,” Garald said, keeping his voice under control though he felt that his heart might have turned to iron, so heavy was it with this new burden of fear.

  Radisovik caused a Corridor to open, a void of quiet nothingness set against a background of storm-tossed trees and slashing rain. The Prince, his Cardinal, and two Duuk-tsarith prepared to step inside.

  “I will send Ariels back to report,” Garald said, turning to his commanders who were gathered around him. “Sorcerer, I leave you in command in my absence,” he added, silencing protesting murmurs with a glance. This was one decision of which he felt secure. He had already considered that this might be a plot by the Sorcerers to take over the world and he had discounted it. He knew these people, he trusted in their loyalty. More important, he knew their capabilities and their limitations.

  Creatures of iron.

  Garald brought forth a mental image of the blacksmith, summoning demons from the forge fire.

  No. It made no sense. He had seen them, working day and night, fashioning spear tips and crude daggers…

  Creatures of iron. It was almost laughable.

  “What is your destination, Your Grace?” asked Radisovik as Prince Garald entered the Corridor.

  “Take me to Emperor Xavier.”

  12

  Creatures Of Iron

  Life is magic. Magic is life. Magic poured from the heart of Thimhallan, flowing from the Well of Life within the mountain fortress of the Font to every object in the world. Each pebble, each blade of grass, each drop of water was imbued with magic. Every person in the world—even those declared Dead—was gifted with magic. There had been only one truly Dead man on Thimhallan, and he had been driven beyond its borders.

  But now, it was as if the well of magic had been poisoned, the magic laced with a fear that sprang from a source so deep and dark that it had—for centuries—been forgotten. As the Watchers screamed their unheard warnings from the border, so now the rocks of Thimhallan cried out in terror, the trees swayed their limbs in frenzy, the very ground shook.

  Mosiah could not move. A Nullmagic spell could not have robbed him of life more thoroughly than did his fear, its chill fingers stealing reason, breath, and energy, leaving him unable to think, to react when the clouds of fog parted and he saw the horror that had come to Thimhallan it was a creature of iron; Mosiah, who had worked for months in the forge, recognized the shining scales of metal as would few other magi in Thimhallan. The creature’s squat, toadlike body was as big as that of a griffin, but it had no wings, it could not fly. It had no legs either, and was forced to crawl along the ground on its belly. The head swiveled like the head of an owl, and Mosiah thought it must be blind, for it appeared to blunder forward aimlessly. Oblivious to anything in its path, the creature smashed into trees, mowing them down, wrenching their living roots from the earth. It crushed rock and churned up the ground, leaving marks of its clumsy passage in the trampled grass and mud.

  Mosiah watched it in helpless terror, wondering what hideous being this was and how it came to be loosed upon the world. Then he discovered, horribly, that the creature was not blind. It had eyes. Like the basilisk, it used them for seeing … and for killing.

  Hidden in a clump of trees about twenty feet from the creature, Mosiah saw suddenly a warlock fly toward him, fleeing the lumbering monster. Hurtling in wild panic through the air, his red robes streaming behind him, the War Master was easily outdistancing the slow, awkward creature.

  The creatures head revolved, it appeared to be hunting its prey, sniffing it out. Suddenly, a single eye—hollow, dark, and empty—winked open in the head and focused on the flying wizard. The eye blinked, shooting forth a thin beam of light that flashed on and off so swiftly Mosiah wasn’t even certain afterward that he had seen it.

  The eye beam struck the warlock in the back, causing the man to plummet to the ground. The momentum of his frantic flight carried him forward. He rolled near Mosiah, who stared at the warlock hopefully. At last, he wasn’t alone? Surely this War Master would know what was going on. Mosiah waited for the warlock to stand up, for the fall had not been particularly severe. But the warlock didn’t move.

  “He’s not dead,” Mosiah told himself, swallowing the fear that was a choking bile in his throat. Glancing up, he saw that the creature had momentarily come to a halt, its head staring forward. “How could he be dead? There’s no wound, nothing but a hole burned in his robes…. He must just be stunned. I’ve got to help….”

  But it took several seconds to grapple with panics debilitating grasp. Finally, keeping one eye warily on the creature, seeing the head start to swivel around again—probably in search of its downed prey—Mosiah crept from the shelter of the trees and, grabbing the warlock by the collar of his robes, dragged the man back into the shadows.

  Mosiah turned the warlock over on his back, but he knew even before he saw the staring eyes and gaping mouth that the man was dead. A tiny wisp of smoke curled upward from the wizard’s breast. Mosiah’s breath caught in his throat and he backed away from the corpse.

  The beam of light that had flashed for less than a split second had burned a hole through the wizard’s body as a red-hot poker burns a hole through soft wood.

  The ground shook beneath Mosiah’s feet. The creature was coming in search of its victim. Mosiah wanted to run, but all feeling left his legs; the sight of the dead warlock and the swift and sudden manner of the man’s death completely unnerved him. Raising his gaze from the corpse, Mosiah stared at the great beast as it approached, knowing it must see him. When it came in search of the wizard it had felled. But still he couldn’t move.

  The creature drew nearer. Mosiah could smell its foul odor, poisonous fumes spewed out from its underbody, robbing him of breath. Choking and coughing, cowering amidst the trees, he had no thought of escape, no thought of anything except his fear.

  Undoubtedly, this saved his life.

  The creature swerved and rumbled past him, as a wolf passes by the rabbit sitting frozen in the presence of its enemy, knowing instinctively that movement draws unwanted attention.

  Mosiah watched the thing lurch away from him, its hideous head—now seemingly blind again—turning this way and that in search of more prey, crawling past the body of the warlock without a look, without so much as a sniff.

  A centaur kills out of hatred and mutilates the body. Dragons kill for food, as do the griffin and the chimera. A giant kills out of ignorance, not understanding its own strength. But this thing had killed purposefully, coldly, without apparent reason or even interest.

  Though the fog had lifted and Mosiah could now find and join up with the rest of his unit, he huddled within the sheltering grove, afraid to move, scared to stay. The creature of iron was still within sight and sound, its foul breath poisoning the air, its blind head turning this way and that as it blundered through the vegetation.

  Were there more of its kind around? Mosiah wondered, leaning weakly against a tree. He was starting to shake, a reaction to his terror. Unwillingly, his gaze went to the body of the warlock, lying some distance from him. What monstrous being was this that Xavier had created? Mosiah quickly averted his gaze from the pale, astonished face
of the corpse, the tiny curls of smoke rising from the charred fabric of the robes….

  The robes.

  Mosiah looked back at the body, his eyes widening. The warlock wore the robes of Merilon?

  “Blessed Almin?” Mosiah whispered, his eyes going back to the creature, which was just vanishing out of sight beyond a small hill. “Is that … ours? Is that why it didn’t attack me?”

  The Sorcerers! was his next thought. He put a trembling hand to his lips, wiping away chill sweat. Hastily, he glanced about, hoping to see other members of his unit. Many of them were true Sorcerers, people who had been born and raised in the hidden Coven of those who practiced the Dark Arts of Technology. They would know. Perhaps they had been building this thing secretly, intent on taking over the world. He had heard them talk of that often enough.

  Closing his eyes, Mosiah pictured the creature—its metal scales, its breath reminding him of the fumes that rose from the forge.

  Yes, he thought with swift anger and hatred. Yes? They must have done it. I never trusted them, never….

  But even as he reached this decision, some cold part of him that was thinking rather than panicking said no. Mosiah looked down at the crossbow he held clutched in his hand. (He had completely forgotten in his terrified state that he even held a weapon.) He saw its crudeness, its misshapen lines. He thought of the time it had taken to fashion this tool, of the men hammering and sweating in the forge hours upon hours. He recalled the creature of iron—the shining metal scales, the way it crawled smoothly over the uneven ground. Even in days of their power and glory the Sorcerers had not been able to construct anything like that. How could they now? They could barely build a working crossbow….